


Hærfest

by FakeCirilla9



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Animal Death, Canonical Character Death, Darkening of Valinor, Established Relationship, Family Drama, Forest Sex, Hunters & Hunting, M/M, Size Difference, Years of the Trees
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-23
Updated: 2019-09-23
Packaged: 2020-10-28 09:55:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20776646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FakeCirilla9/pseuds/FakeCirilla9
Summary: Oromë and Tyelkormo celebrate the Festival of Harvest in their own way





	Hærfest

**Author's Note:**

> A bit late personal tribute to the Autumn Equinox.

A harvest festival was one time of a cycle when Varda needed to give up her place in favour of Yavanna, when earthly things that grew came before astral matters.

The feast of the end of this ripening season was even more splendid than usual, at the wish of Manwë, for there was another occasion to celebrate: the conflicted princes of the Noldor were to make amends.

Fëanáro was bid to come and come he did. He appeared reluctantly, however, and made his disinclination well-known. All those who depended on his will and were not bound by Manwë’s order – his sons and even his father a king – stayed at home.

Finwë sat by the hearth and gazing into the fire he seemed immersed into his own world; as if the scorching flames reminded him his beloved absent child. Maitimo listened to a sorrow song of passing crops, a tune played by Makalaurë and vocally accompanied by his wife.

Morifinwë and Curufinwë were perhaps the only ones truly glad of not going to the feast, both disliking social occasions vehemently. None of them showed much joy outwardly, yet they quickly found an occupation in the form of discussing the parameters of a perfectly balanced sword. Which bored Tyelkormo to no end.

From all of the brothers he loved fighting the most. He could sense if a sword had the right built simply by weighing it in hand. In matter of weaponry his instincts worked arguably better than the skills of Curufinwë the craftiest. And yet the discussion of mathematical aspects of the dimensions, which seemed to satisfy his younger siblings to unhealthy measures, tired him.

Tyelkormo stood up and stretched with a yawn, pretending not to notice dark looks the musician corner of the room sent him. Huan woke up at the commotion, then mirrored his master’s gestures, stretching paws, first fore, then hind legs and a tail. He let out a mighty growling yawn, though he did look a bit more apologetic than his owner at Maitimo's chastising glance.

Tyelko left the room in hopes of finding the twins up to something more interesting than the stifling atmosphere of the hearth chamber. The dog trotted after him.

* * *

He found them in the courtyard engaged in entertainment so completely as if they had no care in the Arda that their mother is not living with them, that their parents are nearly estranged, that their father is persona non grata to the Valar, worsening their stance in the Powers’ eyes even now most probably - and the twins probably truly didn't care children as they were.

Now Telufinwë had an apple perched on his head and Pityafinwë was taking an aim at it, drawing his bow. With a swoosh the arrow flew before Tyelko’s aghast eyes. He watched, terrified, as one of his brothers shoot at the other. Luckily Huan leaped up in the air and caught the missile with his mighty teeth before it hit its mark.

Tyelko was at Pitya immediately, wrenching the bow from him.

“Hey, your dog ruins the fun- that's my bow, give it back! What are you doing pretending an older sibling!?”

“I _am_ your older sibling!”

“I would quicker imagine Atarinkë doing that than you,” Telufinwë joined forces with his twin, walking closer.

Why everyone gave Curufinwë so much credit and him so little was beyond Tyelkormo’s comprehension. Even in matters like these, while Tyelko was the third best person to entrust little Tyelperinquar with – right after the child’s mother and their father – and Curufinwë made it nowhere in first ten.

Telufinwë bit the apple. Pityafinwë scowled.

“That was a shield, you fool. Give me back my bow,” he demanded of Tyelkormo, reminded of their activity.

“I will not.”

“Give me back my bow or I don't tell you who's waiting for you and where.”

“Who-”

Pitya just glared at him expectantly, outstretching his hand.

Tyelkormo sighed. “I'll give it back, but you promise to not shoot your brother.”

“I wasn't going to shoot him.”

Telufinwë took another crunch of the fruit. “You should give the bow quickly. An apple core will be even a harder target.”

“You will promise me to cease that stupid play or else I will break your bow this instant.”

To support his words, Tyelkormo made a gesture as if he was going to crash the weapon. Which came out believably due to his fingers clutching to whitening of his knuckles.

“All right, all right, I promise, don't ruin it!” Pityafinwë panicked.

Tyelko thrusted the bow at the redhead’s chest and Pitya hugged it protectively.

“So who was looking for me?”

“He didn't tell his name and he has many of them.” There was a glint in Pitya’s eyes and the twins traded mischievous glances.

“Stop talking in riddles, I've got enough of these with the other pair of intellectuals up there.”

“If I were you, I would go to the woods.”

“To the woods? Couldn't you be more specific?”

“Said he who claims to be the best hunter among Noldor.”

“Among Eldar,” corrected Tyelkormo automatically, “...okay. I'll go, you two don't kill each other here. Huan,” and to his dog he said in a dog speech to not let the twins come to any serious harm.

Huan promised they will be safe with him as a guard, and their growls and murmurs were pretty understandable to everyone around, not in word but in meaning.

* * *

Shape of these hooves he knew by heart. Forged by Aulë himself, golden they were and struck sparks as Nahar galloped through the steppes. Though he did not see them now, he could easily picture them in his mind having seen them so many times before.

He found him near the great mallorn visible from his bedchamber. The Vala leaned on the trunk, while Nahar, unsaddled, grazed the grass nearby.

“It’s you.”

“Have you expected someone else?” teased Oromë.

“Stalking from the woods, hiding in the dark – one could easily take you for another Black Rider.”

Oromë’s smile faded.

“I’ve been looking for him actually. It bothers me what he is up to since he disappeared. But if he went through here, he must have done so hovering in the air. There is no trace of him left on the ground. Even if he somehow passed by, he is no longer hither for there are no signs of him, no disturbance in the environment that would indicate his presence... And since I was already here I thought why not pay a visit to my favourite disciple.”

“And here I thought you missed me.”

“I did miss you. You didn't turn up on the feast, I was hoping to meet you there.”

“Ah, about that, father wasn't too keen on us going...”

Fëanáro had stormed out to the feast in a gait more like he was going to war, and he probably was on his own personal vendetta against Fingolfin and all that were behind him, which marked almost all Valar and majority of the Noldor. He hadn’t even taken Silmarili with himself and purposefully neglected any commoner jewellery from mithril or gold. At least he had traded a leather apron to a simple red gown, covering his chest and arms. He had left slamming the doors shut behind him and though he had spared not a word to the household of Formenos, it was pretty obvious to all that they shall not follow him to this party.

“I see,” said Oromë. “So how about we do some celebrating on our own instead?”

“I’m not sure he would like any of us to celebrate.”

“I am sure your father's ban does not stretch to a little stroll in the woods. He might have a problem with you going to Manwë or Mandos, but me? I had nigh to naught to say in the sentence of his exile. Besides, I am certain he won’t be mad if we provide him with venison. On my way I saw a twelve pointer secluded from the herd.”

Hunter instincts awaketh, the temptation was too great for Tyelko to resist.

“Let’s go,” he grinned.

“Don’t you want to get your bow beforehand? I thought you will have one already as your brothers-”

“I’ve got enough of bows and brothers for today. Besides, I’ve got my knife, you’ve got plenty of weapons; and for the matter we could kill the game even barehanded.”

* * *

And so they went. It’d been agreed that Tyelko would made a battue and Oromë would shoot the game. Yet when Tyelkormo followed the trail to a place where he saw it and it couldn’t sense him due to breeze, he didn’t spook it. Instead, taking out his knife he fell to his knees and crawled toward the prey. He went slowly through the moist ground, covered by silver-lit with Telperion light mist.

The deer nibbled the grass, unaware of the mortal danger lurking so close.

Tyelkormo soundlessly covered the distance until he was mere feet away. Knife in hand, he leaped to the game, falling on it silent as death.

Sixth sense warned the deer and it rushed to the escape, but the rocky ground was treacherous. It slid on some unevenness, stumbled and Tyelkormo’s knife reached it. The blade didn’t pluck in the flesh, only grazed it as the panicked creature jumped aside.

The stag run for its life. Tyelkormo chased after it. The pursuit wasn’t long as the frightened animal stumbled into a natural trap. The ridges of Pelóri formed a canyon there too steep for hiking, ending in likewise abrupt wall.

The deer hesitated, trotted to one side of the valley, then the other, tried jumping on the slope. Finally, it turned to the elf that blocked the only way out and took up the desperate fight.

Tyelkormo readied himself as it charged at him and grabbed the antlers pointed his way. They wrestled, Tyelkormo’s muscles bulged as he grappled with velvet-coated bones. Tyelkormo bared his teeth like a feral wild creature, keeping the antlers from hurting him.

The sheer physical strength was perhaps at the deer’s side, but Tyelkormo was a better fighter. He was skilled and trained in this, a predator both by nature and nurture. He was also smarter and he had a blade. Which, after doing a feint, he sunk into the creature’s heart.

In throws of approaching death, it trashed in Tyelkormo’s grip even more until the strength leaked from it along with blood and it stumbled to the ground, shivering.

The man won, the dying deer laid at his feet and he stayed with it, offered the last consolation, calmed the restless mind, until the maelstrom of thoughts slowed and the heart rate died. Consciousness and breathing and pulse all faded. The fëa went free. The hröa laid at Tyelko’s feet.

Kneeling over it, he laid his palm on still warm, cooling body and whispered a prayer in a language that wasn’t human.

Linguistic talent he had after his father, but Fëanáro, always more interested in people, deemed animals unworthy of his attentions. He could command the wildlife so easily it didn't present a challenge. But Tyelkormo talked with them. He had heard the thoughts of escaping deer: the fear, the panic, the will to live, the mad resolution to face a stronger enemy in an uneven fight when it could run no longer, the desperate struggle until Tyelkormo stabbed its heart.

Oromë approached him, coming from the entry of the valley. The Great Hunter didn't say a thing seeing that the elf violated their agreement. Perhaps he had watched the whole event from the hide.

He simply kneeled on the other side of the game and dabbled his own hands in bloodied, tore by steel flesh over Tyelko’s smaller ones. Fingers intertwined in the gore. Then Oromë lifted his palms and tracked his fingers on Tyelkormo’s face, smearing blood like during a bleeding rite on the first kill when a hunter became part of his train.

Tyelkormo leaned in his touch. Oromë marvelled at his hot breath and heated skin of a living creature so close to its physical form. The elf was affected by the hunt almost as much as the prey that laid dead between them.

“A good kill,” praised Oromë, breaking the silence, “one that demands celebration.”

He unfastened a skin of potent wine he wore at his belt and handed it to Tyelko. Tyelkormo first spilled some on the ground in honour of the killed animal, whose spirit still hovered around. Then he drunk himself and finally passed it to his mentor.

* * *

Oromë took the deer as they went to their makeshift hunting camp. It was located in a vale with a creek, one of many that run down from the Mountains of Aman. They strung the carcass upon the tree and Tyelko took off his shirt to skin it. Cutting off the heart he held it out to Oromë.

“Shall I offer you a heart, my lord?” he asked with a smile.

“Is your heart not mine already?” countered Oromë, stepping to Tyelkormo from behind.

The Vala swept the light hair from the elf’s nape and nibbled the skin there. Tyelkormo laughed.

“Let me finish this first!” He protested, but didn’t even lean out of Oromë’s reach.

The blood from the killed game still dripped to a basin placed beneath it. The organs were put to smaller vessels like bloody imitations of bowls of grain placed at Yavanna’s feet further south.

The bowels Tyelkormo threw to the river and watched the water stir as fish threw upon it, pleased to have feast so much more salacious than usual insects that occasionally flew too close to the surface.

“Who knew they were so carnivorous,” he commented. “I wanted to wash, but they may take me for a meal.”

Oromë scoffed. “I assure you they won’t eat you. Neither Yavanna nor Ulmo would allow them to hurt an Elda.”

“Fine,” said Tyelkormo, already taking off his boots and kicking them aside, not caring one landed in a mud, “but the moment they launch a mass attack on me, you come to my recue.”

Lowering his breeches, Tyelkormo could feel Oromë’s hungry eyes at himself. Unabashed he walked to the river. The bank was muddy and unpleasant, the water too cool from the high mountains, where snow never fully melted. And even though Laurelin rose the temperature pleasantly during its lightening periods at the time of ripening, it was way cooler in Telperion’s silver light. But Tyelko was overheated after a hunt and sticky with blood, and he immersed into the water gladly. The current was strong, but the stream wasn’t deep. The bottom turned stony, once he reached a centre of the riverbed.

Water barely reached his waist. He splashed himself with it.

“Be quick about it,” called Oromë.

Tyelkormo looked over his shoulder.

“Why won’t you join me?”

“I’m not too keen on sharing you with Ulmo.”

“Your loss,” Tyelkormo shrugged, then held his breath and dived.

His hands roamed his body, water washed over him and its limpidness tinted red as it cleaned him. Finally scrubbed pure and white as at the day he was born, he came out. Wet hair clung to his skull and he shivered in the light breeze.

Oromë was waiting for him and Tyelkormo went straight into his open arms. The Vala breathed on him and his breath dried and warmed. Water evaporated his skin as if he never went swimming, only his hair remained slightly damp. Tyelko murmured with a delight of a petted dog and snuggled closer into Oromë’s chest.

“Hmm, don't let me go. Stay all time like that. Don't you ever let me go.”

“I have no intention of letting you go.”

The big hands stroked his bare back, his wide shoulders, his whole quite impressive form, dwarfed only by a Vala next to him. The touch slid lower and become more demanding as fingers kneaded his buttocks. 

As desire roused within him, he pressed his hips to Oromë’s and felt the answering hardness there poking into his abdomen.

“You’ve got too much clothes,” complained Tyelkormo and wedged both his hands between their close-pressed bodies.

He made a quick job with the buckle and proceeded to untie straps at Oromë’s crotch with impatience that nearly got them tangled until Oromë’s hands upon his stilled him.

"Slow down my hasty one."

Tyelko forced himself to comply.

Finally, finally he dragged down breeches enough to pull out what he craved for. Oromë’s member was big and mighty, engorged with blood, standing erect with the desire for him.

Tyelko dropped to his knees and taking it into his mouth thus he paid reverence to his god. His job was messy and wet and he choked whenever he swallowed too much too quickly.

Hand in his hair pulled sharply, demanding of him to look up, focusing his attention. Oromë held him in place and gave pace himself, slower and more regular. After several thrusts he halted entirely.

“Okay, enough. Stop, Tyelko, my love.” Oromë said and pulled out, his organ glistening wet in Telperion’s light.

The Vala lowered himself to sit across the kneeling elf. Rummaging through his opulent pouch, he pulled out a small container Tyelko was well familiar with. It consisted of animal fat scented with herbs that also had interesting side effects like relaxing muscles or alleviating pain.

Tyelkormo laughed.

“Always prepared, huh? Always eager.”

“Eager to please you.”

Oromë dipped his fingers in and smeared some of the substance on his cock, then reached between Tyelko’s legs. He would have prepared him lovingly and patiently if not for his hasty follower’s growls and demands for him to hurry up, to:

“Do it already, stick your dick not your fingers in me- ah!”

“Careful what you wish for,” huffed Oromë, “for your prayers may be answered.”

He entered him as they sat chest to chest, almost face to face due to Tyelko being hauled up higher in Oromë’s lap. And Tyelko allowed himself to be brought down, speared on the delightful rod. But that's all right, that's cool, flesh tearing sensation he knew to be just an impression caused by shock. There was no tear, just a sting and a stretch and a stretch that burnt.

He willed his muscles to relax, though he couldn't really unclench his jaw or else he would whimper.

The Vala went slowly but he was so big and Tyelko was all sweated and trembling once he's fully seated. But there was a hand on his face now, and he unclenched his shut eyes and smiled painfully at his lover. Next to discomfort there was satisfaction and a sense of accomplishment that he was capable of doing this.

His deity leaned in closer and bestowed a kiss on his favourite’s forehead, on his nose, his lips and they were kissing. The lazy activity took up pace and lips were joined by tongues; tongues were joined by teeth; a fang dragged on the lip and drew blood.

Blood coursed faster through Tyelkormo’s veins, distributing hormones. Testosterone mingled with adrenaline.

Oromë’s hips buckled up, Tyelkormo whined, but the sound was strangled by the Vala’s kiss. Strong arms of the Great Hunter of Valinor held him securely, lifted up and lowered back down. The impressive length of flesh glided smoothly inside him as Oromë bounced him up and down in eternal rhythm of sex.

The Vala’s strength more than enough for that, which was one of the many things that excited Tyelko in that. There was something immensely erotic in such a base submission. It was a law of nature that the weaker yielded to the stronger. The Vala could just as easily crash him as he lifted him effortlessly as is if Tyelko weighed nothing. He was held carefully and attentively as if a stronger grasp, a moment of inadvertence could end his existence.

The danger aroused Tyelko too of course. Even though Oromë’s anger has never been pointed directly at him, he saw glimpses of his rage during a hunt, fervour of chasing a prey, wrath sparked by Morgoth.

Desire built up in him, ignited first like sparks from under Nahar’s hooves, then brighter like flickers from brother’s and father’s forge, then blinding like a light of one of Silmarili.

Arms on Oromë’s shoulders, legs draped over the Vala’s waist, he came apart in Oromë’s hands, upon his dick, under his caresses and loving touches.

* * *

Then he laid spent on the ground and the Vala sat next to him, half laying himself, sprawled languidly and contemplating him. The moment Tyelkormo could move, he turned to his idol and smiled.

Oromë was finishing a garland of the twigs he must have gathered when Tyelko was out of it. Now he held a complete circlet plaited of still green oak leaves and red rowanberries of mountain ash. He placed the crown on Tyelko’s messy head, adorning the elf in the same manner the girls further south offered the wreaths of grain and wildflowers to their lady Yavanna.

“Round two?” proposed Tyelkormo with a glint in his eyes.

And that second time Oromë laid down and dragged him above. Tyelko straddled him, grabbing the Vala’s cock, still wet from earlier and guiding it himself into his hole. As he was still stretched, it went easier. Oromë’s length filled him smoothly, completed him.

He rode it obeying the waves of pleasure rushing through him. Up and down, and a gentle rock at the bottom. He wore nothing but the garland, his white skin seemed alight in Telperion’s fading rays and Laurelin’s waking ones, blond hair swayed with his movements. Arousal mounted in him again like tides beating higher and higher upon the shore.

And then the world ended but not in an orgasm, but in a literal catastrophic event. Darkness fell suddenly.

It went as quickly as Melkor’s spear piercing the gold and silver trunks and the light, instead of intensifying in its hour of mingling, died.

Worse than the sudden, complete – if not for Varda’s stars – darkness was the emotional impact of this blow, hurting more than any physical wound dealt by a blade could. The light was gone and with it seemingly all that was good and pure and fair in the world. The lack of brightness meant the loss of guidance ever present on the west, the death of the world as they knew it.

Disoriented and scared they both turned their heads south-west as if they could see at miles’ distance to the Mound of Two Trees. Perhaps Oromë could.

“Melkor,” he whispered, clenching his fists.

They were apart Tyelko didn’t know exactly when, and jumping to their feet. Tyelko dragged on breeches just because that was the item closest to him. He didn’t waste time on searching for his blouse.

Oromë whistled in a frequency so high it was barely heard to Tyelkormo, but almost immediately the drumming of Nahar’s hooves came out of the forest.

“Take me with you,” Tyelkormo pleaded and Oromë gave him a hand.

The carcass of the killed deer was left unheeded on the clearing as they dashed across the wood. No light was anymore on the West, but the sense of a hunter, even without memorizing all constellations of stars like Curufinwë did, told Tyelkormo they weren’t heading in the desired direction.

“Where are you going?! Head south, to the Trees!”

“That might be a dangerous place to be in right now. Melkor is probably still there. You will wait at your parent’s stronghold.”

“No! My father is there! Take me there! You can't!”

The Great Rider was deaf at his protests. He grabbed Tyelkormo’s naked waist harder and pinned him closer to himself. Tyelko might trashed and kicked and bit, but Oromë was unmoved.

And so they reached Formenos, but there was a darkness even denser than what befell the world. The black haze lingering in the air stifled breath and weakened courage in heart.

Oromë brought Nahar to a halt when they were met with the party from Formenos that included nearly all of Tyelkormo’s family. Even little Tyelperinquar was there, hugged tightly in his mother’s arms, wailing aloud despite her tries to soothe him.

“What happened?!” cried Tyelkormo, hopping to the ground, as Oromë’s hold on him relaxed.

Curufinwë whirled to him but words of explanation died at his lips, replaced by an expression of disgust. Only at the grimace Tyelko realized he still wore the garland and his breeches were barely don, and his knife holder hung crooked. It was quite obvious what they've been up to for everyone, especially for this sharp-eyed younger brother of his.

Without an answer, Curufinwë turned his back on him, going back to his wife and child. He spared not one glance at Oromë as if he the Vala was not there.

“It was Morgoth,” provided Maitimo. “Morgoth attacked us.”

Oromë spurred his horse before Tyelkormo or anyone had a chance to stop him and he was off galloping to the gates of Formenos where Tulkas was already nearing from another side.

The darkness dissipated gradually until it ceased to be a tangible being on its own and was only a lack of light. They all went back to the castle on foot, some lingering more than others, afraid not so much of who just left but of what they will find there.

And the sight that greeted them was more disastrous than anyone dared to imagine. King Finwë laid in the threshold, dead and spiritless like the deer Tyelko had killed earlier that day.

“The treasury is broken and empty. The Silmarili are gone,” said Carnistir hollowly.

“We need to send word to father,” Makalaurë whispered, kneeling at their grandfather’s body.

Their words washed through Tyelkormo barely registered. Guilt gnawed at him as Finwë’s blood that dropped down the marble stairs. He wasn’t even there, he frolicked in the woods when his grandfather and king faced Morgoth. That moment he swore to himself to avenge the death of his ancestor and ever onward he was the most ardent among his bothers to fulfil the Oath taken later.


End file.
